It's Only Sex
by this is only a test
Summary: "If anyone suspected you got it bad for that lousy son of a gun, you'd do what you always do: deny, deny, deny. Nobody needs to know about him and what you have. Nobody needs to know because you're not really queer."


**Disclaimer** – I don't own The Outsiders.

**Author's Note** – Apparently slash kills writer's block. Who knew? Oh, and while we're on the slash note, if man on man and/or sexual situations bother you, you probably shouldn't read. Just sayin'... People who follow my other stories especially _Swim, Don't Sink_, I apologize for the insane lapse in update. The words are kind of flowing again, and I hope to update by the weekend. Send me lots of good karma or something. Ward the the evil writer's block away!

That's all. Please read and review, folks. (:

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It happens once every few weeks, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always on a weeknight when Buck's is next to empty.

Sure, you fuck around but only in the literal sense of the word; when it comes to keeping your shameless crush on Timothy Shepard secret, your lips are permanently sealed. If anyone suspected you got it bad for that lousy son of a gun, you'd do what you always do: deny, deny, deny. Nobody needs to know about him and what you have. Nobody needs to know because you're not really queer.

You're _not_.

Just because you happen to like the way another man feels inside of you doesn't make you queer; it makes you human and deranged and lots of other desperate things, but not queer. No sir, not fucking queer. The day you date another man is the day hell freezes over. No_, _you _just _want his body when it's convenient to you. That's all. Just a cheap thrill. Every time it happens, you get off and leave. Simple as that, and why make it any more complicated than it has to be?

No strings attached; oh, that's the best goddamned part. No broads hanging around longer than you signed up for. They all say they'll leave. Sylvia likes to say she wants a quick lay, but she lies. All women lie about what they really want. What they really want is disgusting. They want to wake up in your arms the next morning, they want to hear you say you love them because showing it apparently isn't good enough, and god forbid you knock them up 'cause they wouldn't let you pull out fast enough, they want to get married and have a perfect little family. See, sex is just bribery for want they really want.

Sylvia flashes her skin and baits you so fast you don't know what hit you, and you can't say no. Glory, one look at that rack, and you're done for. If God wanted man to be chaste, why'd he make Sylvia? Because he's a cruel, heartless bastard with no sense of humor?

You can try and run away from it, but then she touches you and whispers something in your ear, and before you know it, she's sinking her teeth in your ear lobe, and you could come right there before your fingertips can even unzip your jeans. It's a curse. She's a goddamned curse, but Shepard is different.

His mind is as one track oriented as yours. It's all about the here and now. When he locks eyes on you, and you return the glances, that's all there needs to be. No talk. You both know what you want, and you'll both get what you want as soon as his car pulls into the outskirts of nowhere.

Tonight is no different. When he turns off the engine, you both act on instinct, on impulse, without a word.

When he throws you down against the backseat and kisses you, he tastes like stale booze and mentholated cigarettes. Hardly sexy, but you're not here for the romance. You don't want the long walks, the sweet nothings, the stupid promises, and all that other Hollywood bullshit _with a man_. No, you got Sylvia for that, and ain't she a treat.

Whatever this is it's better.

Animalistic. Primeval. No thinking required. The way he locks his lips against yours and grabs your ass makes only a single thought race through your mind. You shove him upward. Enough of this kissing nonsense. He wants it too, so why doesn't he just do it already?

You shove him again, and he pushes you back down, fingers digging into your shoulderblades.

"I like it when you get rough, Timmy," you taunt.

That's all the invitation he needs.

"Shut up," he hisses, but his hands go straight for the button and zipper of your jeans.

He can't get them off fast enough, and you smirk.

This is it. The way it always is, the way it should be.

And now you have him, right where you want him, but it ain't queer. Goddamnit, it ain't queer.

It's only sex.


End file.
